


this, too

by curiositykilled



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Bucky Barnes as Captain America, Everyone loves Steve Rogers, F/M, Gen, Non-Linear Narrative, Not Captain America: The Winter Soldier Compliant, Past Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Possibly Unrequited Love, Post-Captain America: The First Avenger, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, pre-SHIELD, unfortunately he's dead
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-04-01
Packaged: 2018-03-20 04:02:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3635922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curiositykilled/pseuds/curiositykilled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“They’ll want us to act like we’re in love. If you agree. They’ll want to keep the story going.”</p><p>This time, he nods without saying anything more. His heart’s beating like a sledgehammer against his ribs, trying to escape out the back, and his missing arm throbs like a fresh wound. He would lose a thousand more to have never come back to this hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. may, 1946

           “America needs Captain America.”

           “You would be doing your country a great service, Sergeant.”

           “Do it for him. Captain Rogers wouldn’t want the public to be upset.”

           He’s still bleary-eyed from anesthetic, his missing arm a dull ache that reverberates through his chest and bones. That ache is nothing compared to the hollowed out cavity beneath his breastbone.

           “We’ll give you some time to think on it,” the man says, pats him on the shoulder. He flinches.

           In their absence, the room isn’t silent, but he isn’t listening to the whispers just beyond the door or the quiet hum of medical equipment.

            _Captain Steve Rogers had to force an emergency landing of the_ Valkyrie _. He went down with the jet._

           The words echo and ring through his mind, bouncing off his skull and not quite sticking. It’s impossible, in exactly the same way he knows that it’s true. There’s no way Steve can be dead, just as nothing but death could keep him away from Bucky’s side post-recovery.

           _“The news hasn’t reached the States yet,” the man explained, “All they know is Captain America saved the world.”_

_“We’ve got three million boys headin’ back and they’re gonna’ need jobs and houses that we just don’t have,” the other added, “We’re gonna’ need all the help we can get.”_

           He hadn’t answered them then, still doesn’t have an answer. The prosthetic hand curls reflexively in his lap, catches the light, and he looks away.  He doesn’t remember much, has a great wall of static where the past twelve months should be, and he is distantly grateful for that. He doesn’t want to think right now.

           They left a suit – not Steve’s, he was wearing it when he – when the jet – _then_.  Anyway, it wouldn’t have fit.

           None of it fits.

           Steve is – _was_ – good. Sure, he was an angry little shit, but it was always a righteous anger – one that came from seeing someone beat down unjustly. Hell, he dove into enemy territory to save a thousand men just because he didn’t believe they should be left in HYDRA’s hands when he could do something about it. That goodness has always radiated out of him like sunshine tucked in a too-small form.

           Bucky, on the other hand, has always tried to do the right thing, sure, but he’s never had that indefatigable conviction of Steve’s. Instead, he’s always seen himself as a modern-day Sydney Carton – too ambiguous and opportunistic to be a hero but easily enough sacrificed to protect the truly good guys.

           A star on Steve’s chest made sense: it was a belated acknowledgment of what he’d always been. On Bucky? It’d be a sham.

           He’s broken out of these cyclic thoughts by a light tapping at the door. It’s open by the time he glances up, and in slips Agent Carter. She’s in uniform, of course, makeup immaculate, but there’s something hollow about her pale face that never was there before. Even the tiny, spiteful part of Bucky that always reared a green head when Steve would fawn over Carter sinks down in pain at the sorrow reflected in her expression.

           “Sergeant Barnes,” she greets politely.

           “Agent Carter,” he replies flatly. “How can I help you?”

           She glances towards the suit draped over the chair back before turning to pull a spare chair over beside his bed. Her brown eyes are warm and aching, and it hurts to meet their gaze.

           “They asked you about taking his place, then,” she states.

           “Yeah,” Bucky agrees, turning his gaze back to his mismatched hands.

           “James,” she starts before hesitating.

           He side-eyes her and watches her swallow before reaching out and gently resting her palm on his metallic wrist.

           “James, I will tell you what I told Steve when you fell,” she restarts. “He made his choice. He chose to take that plane down and go with it. If you respected him, you will respect that choice. He wouldn’t have wanted you to mourn.”

           It sounds callous, uncaring except for the slight tremble in her smooth voice. This isn’t the woman who sauntered into that bar three years ago, or the one who had Steve turning beet red from a single appraising look. This is the one Steve sighed over, the one he got to see when they disappeared together for a few hours at a time. The thought makes something ugly and painful clench hard behind Bucky’s sternum.

Twisting, he shifts to face her more fully, and she seems to understand, moving enough that he can pull her into a hug. Before he can offer anything to add, they’re both crying. Ugly, choked sobs break through both of them, shuddering through their bodies like earthquakes.

           “I’m so sorry,” he mutters into her dark hair. “I’m so sorry.”

           They clutch each other like that, like drowning men to flotsam, for long enough that Bucky loses track of the minutes. By the time their sobs have broken down into shattered breaths, Carter’s sitting on the edge of his hospital bed and Bucky’s shifted over to make room for her.

           “He missed you so much,” she offers, face still pressed into his neck.

           Bucky swallows hard, grateful for the lack of eye contact, and releases a shaky breath.

           “He would’ve married you, y’know,” he replies. “He was totally gone for you.”

           Carter trembles lightly against him.

           “They’ll – if you,” she pauses to collect herself. “They’ll want us to act like we’re in love. If you agree. They’ll want to keep the story going.”

           Gritting his teeth, Bucky lets out a slow breath. Because that’s the problem, isn’t it? Steve’s not just his to mourn – his death’s consequences don’t just impact one James Buchanan Barnes. They affect the world.

           “I won’t do anything you don’t want,” he promises.

           He feels her head move in a nod against his collarbone. For a few moments after, they’re silent, just settling back into their tired bones. It seems impossible to think that neither of them is even thirty; they’ve lived too much for their years.

           “I’m glad you made it back, James,” she finally says.

           This time, he nods without saying anything more. His heart’s beating like a sledgehammer against his ribs, trying to escape out the back, and his missing arm throbs like a fresh wound. He would lose a thousand more to have never come back to this hell.

 

\- - -

  
           “Welcome back, Captain Barnes. It’s an honor to finally meet you.”


	2. date unknown, 1944

             These are the things they don’t put in the history books:

             The Howling Commandos aren’t noble.

             They fight thigh-deep in mud, back-to-back with the devil, and Bucky’s pressed closer to him than any of them.

             Every one of them looks like they’ve been drug face first through a slaughterhouse’s waste chute; mud and gore are wiped across the Commandos’ faces and uniforms like warpaint, but not Bucky. Bucky’s clean as you can be in a war, uniform brushed free of any spare speck of dust, skin smooth and a few shades darker than snow, hair brushed smoothly back if not gelled with pomade.

             He’s a fucking princess next to the rest of them.

             He’s humming softly, slicking a razor-edged knife against a whetstone. It rasps like the hoarse pant of a wolf eyeing up its next meal, and the German's wide eyes and anxious fidgeting make a better mouse than any tail or ears could. Bucky smiles slightly, left corner of his lips curling slowly as he turns the full focus of his gaze to the man seated by his left knee.

             “Listen, kid,” he starts, voice easy and welcoming, “I’ve got nothing against you. You’re just doing your job like the rest of us. Thing is, your job’s gettin’ in our way. You see our dilemma, don’t you?”

             The man, he really is a kid - sure as hell younger than Bucky, who can feel a thousand years rolling under his skin and chafing at his core - grits his teeth and side-eyes Bucky nervously. Bucky smiles.

             “Y’know, why don’t we play a game?” he suggests, voice lowering and smoothing into that singsong croon. “Every time you don’t answer, I get to make a cut. Make you a regular piece o’ art, I bet.”

             There’s a shudder that ripples through the man, but the muscles in his jaw twitch tighter and his gaze shifts stubbornly forward. Bucky can feel his lips curling upwards ever-so-slightly, and he spins his knife absently, glancing over at Steve. He nods, otherwise motionless with his blood-streaked shield leaning against his shins.

             “Where’s Schmidt going?” Steve asks,  voice cold and movable as a mountain.

             No answer. Expected.

             The knife cuts a shallow curve into the top of the man's hand. He flinches back, teeth clenching into a self-imposed gag as Bucky's humming slides into under-his-breath singing, low and minor in his mother's tongue. It’s nonsense,  just random gibberish and dirty jokes crooned to a lullaby's melody, but the agents they question never know that. All they know is the steady, wicked-sharp knife tracing flowers and stripes into their skin and the soft, haunting melody somehow cutting through the baudy ruckus the Commandos turn up as they belt out "The Star Spangled Man" and ransack whatever truck or base they've captured. It drives Bucky a little nuts when they’re bellowing like that, Dum-Dum's bass louder than the rest combined,  but he can’t deny that it makes the whole thing a hell of a lot more effective. There's something unnerving to even HYDRA agents about soldiers singing and making merry while a man gets tortured.

             "Why did your company stay back when the base was evacuated?"

             The man's hand is a weeping mess of ribbons of skin hanging loosely between arcs and tangents of scarlet. Tears are running down his pale cheeks in stilted rivers, and an involuntary whimper tears at his throat,  eyes wide with panic as Bucky lifts his knife again.

             "Hör auf!" He yelps. "Ich werde sagen! Ich werde sagen!  Macht mal der Zigeuner  stoppen!"

             Bucky glances over at Steve, eyebrows raised slightly in question. Steve’s frowning, brow creased in that pensive furrow that always means he's going to have to do something he doesn't particularly want to.

             "Spricht  Englisch?" he asks.

             None of them are really conversant in German,  but they've all gotten that phrase down pat.

             "Nein," the man admits, eyes going a little panicky again. "Spreche Französisch und Russisch?"

             Steve nods, a curt, impersonal acknowledgment and glances over his shoulder towards Dernier.

             "Monty?" he calls. "Your turn."

             The private nods, sets down the case he’s carrying and strides over. Bucky doesn’t make another cut, but he does continue to fiddle with the knife and sing softly. By the faint smell of piss, he has a good hint that it's been more effective than the German would have them know, and he stifles the satisfied smirk that threatens the corners of his lips. Steve would understand,  he knows, because he’s always taken Bucky’s more jagged side with the same amount of determination and fondness as his slicked hair and snake-charmer's grin, but the men already eye him warily enough. He has about the same desire to add to their concerns as he does to kiss Phillips on the mouth, so he cuts off the smirk before it comes and instead continues to hum and flip his knife around like a toy while Dernier asks the man questions in French.

             With Steve and Bucky flanking him, Dernier gets their answers quickly; the man's in pain, but not so much as to be delirious,  and he seems to answer as thoroughly as he can. Every time he does, his gaze flickers to Bucky before snapping back, like he doesn't trust him not to stab him as he speaks. It isn’t _impossible_ , but without Steve’s command,  the only skin the knife meets is Bucky’s as he flips and twirls it.

             "Bonne. C'est tout," Dernier finishes, turning towards Jones.

             "Says they were supposed to destroy the armory, but they couldn't finish because we showed up. He doesn’t know where Schmidt's going,  but the other troops were headed to  Poland -  Łódź, I think," Jones translates.

             "Was there anything in the cache when we went in?" Steve asks, frown deepening.

             "Guns, ammo, mysterious glowing blue shit," Dum-Dum offers. "Nothing outta the ordinary."

             Nodding slightly,  Steve turns the full force of his disapproving look on the man. In Brooklyn,  it'd been enough to shame Bucky into returning stolen oranges and aspirin; here, it's enough to get the German shifting uncomfortably and glancing between Steve and Bucky like he’s eyeing a bear and a snake and trying to decide which is less dangerous.

             "Est-là-dessus encore?" Dernier prompts coolly.

             He’s never enjoyed speaking to the men they capture; hates them a little too much to really deal with them neutrally. It's gotten worse since they heard about Lyons, but he keeps his voice steady, just a little haughty and cold.

             "Là-dessus un pièce," the man starts.

             Dernier's face hardens, and Bucky's knife stills as he translates the rest. A room for selected prisoners - the "optimal subjects" - to be tested and injected and - Steve cuts him off.

             "Enough," he snaps. "Where is it?"

             They leave most the men there, only take Morita in case they find someone alive. They’re silent as they stalk through the already-cleared base, following the German's directions down through increasingly decrepit hallways until they find a locked door. Steve swings back, shield edge cracking the lock like an egg, and shoves it open roughly. A wall of stench bowls into them, sickly sweet and heavy as a truck, and Bucky’s ribs tighten in a breathless clench. Steve’s face is cold, locked down like a high security vault, but his poker faces have always been more telling than anything else: they only come out when he’s terrified.

             The room is full of corpses, neatly stacked at one end of the room and strapped to two of the three tables lined up in the center. Bloody ‘y’s vivisect their bare chests like gruesome handwriting practice. _Yea though I walk..._ Bucky cuts off the memory of ash twigs and stern teachers, swallowing bile.

             “Jesus,” Morita mutters, holding his arm up against his nose.

             It’s a futile attempt, Bucky knows: he’s trying the same thing. The stench is unavoidable, pervasive and inundating. It only gets worse as they near the corpses.

             “Zola,” Bucky murmurs, fingers running lightly over the tools abandoned haphazardly on one of the tables.

             He remembers - he remembers.

             “Buck,” Steve interrupts the surge of lung-piercing tightness in his chest, voice quiet.

             His hand’s gentle, large and warm, where it rests on Bucky’s white-knuckled fist. He doesn’t say any more, just rests his smooth fingers there while Bucky slowly thaws. _Used to have callouses_ , he notes more out of habit than conscious thought. It’s impossible not to notice the changes, even as he catalogues the similarities in the column to the side. Steve’s fingers used to be calloused and a little rough around the fingertips, eternally speckled with ink and charcoal dust; now, they’re just as long and only a little bit broader, but the darkness dotting them is blood and dirt.

             “Think we should call Phillips?” Morita asks, on the opposite side of the lab.

             Steve’s gaze is still on Bucky’s face, so Bucky nods, because that’s what he’s waiting for. He still hesitates a little longer, as if to reassure himself that Bucky’s certain. Bucky holds his gaze, hopes Steve’s new vision doesn’t let him see that fractures he knows are chasmic in his eyes.

             “Yeah,” Steve finally affirms. “He’ll want to know about this.”

             They file out in a silence no quieter than when they entered, Steve beside Bucky as ever; his shoulder brushes a little higher than it should. Bucky’s getting used to it.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I (clearly) speak neither German nor French; many apologies for butchering them here.
> 
>  
> 
> ...I have a lot of feelings about darkish Bucky/Commandos and the compromises that "made [them] not sleep so well."


	3. july 4, 1946

_PEGGY CARTER: There’s gotta’ be a way, there’s gotta’ be!_

_CAPTAIN AMERICA: I can’t let the rest of the world pay this price, Peggy. Not when I can stop it._

_[His shoulders are squared, chiseled jaw firm and determined. Tears collect prettily in PEGGY CARTER’S eyes, and CAPTAIN AMERICA brushes them gently away.]_

_CAPTAIN AMERICA: Now, now, none of that. There are no tears for Captain Amer-_

           Bucky’s out of his seat and out the theatre door before the sentence is finished. He doesn’t quite realize it till he finds himself crouched just out of range of the overhead light, hands on head and head down. His hands are both gloved, but the left is still hard and cold against the comparative warmth and softness of the right. He leans into it.

           It’s all wrong. Ridiculous. Captain America didn’t give his sweetheart a kiss, jump into the jaws of death and come back unscathed; Steve Rogers sacrificed himself for everyone else, because he was a selfless idiot. He was desperate and alone, and though he may have been hundreds of miles away and unconscious, Bucky knows he was terrified.

           “James?”

             He starts, head lifting and legs straightening before he’s consciously processed the voice. Peggy’s lips are tight at the corners and there’s a furrow in her brow, but she doesn’t look upset. She nears and rests a dainty hand on his shoulder.

             “Sorry,” he mumbles. “I can - I’ll be -”

             Her hand slides down his arm, catching in the elbow and gently tugging.

             “Howard will tell us anything we need to know should someone ask our opinion,” she announces quietly and lightly, pulling him carefully down the sidewalk.

             Their shoulders rub together, hers only a little higher than where Steve’s used to. If he just pre- He slams down on that train of thought. It isn’t fair. Not to either of them.

             “You aren’t going back in?” he asks, because it’s easier than the other things spinning and boxing in his mind.

             She raises her eyebrows, unimpressed, and tilts her head slightly to look up at him.

             “Believe it or not, James, watching two of the people I care most about being caricaturized for the entertainment of the masses isn’t exactly enjoyable,” she answers, dry.

             He grimaces.

             “Right. Sorry,” he mutters.

             She’s facing forward, and even with her shoulder pressed to his, Bucky can’t get a solid read on her. They don’t seem to be headed anywhere, just wandering with each other as a crutch.

             “I knew they’d have to do something,” she admits after a long pause, “but I had expected something more...formal.”

             The laugh that makes its way out of Bucky’s throat is strangled and ugly, but Peggy doesn’t flinch.

             “They had a new uniform made before I was even back, and you thought they’d be classy?” he scoffs.

             She stops, then. Turns and faces him with a hard, inscrutable mien.

             “He deserved it,” she replies, voice as firm and challenging as the cool look in her eyes.

             Bucky grits his teeth, averts his gaze, and mutters out, “He deserved a hell of a lot more.”

             Her small hand tightens on his arm, and he can’t tell if it’s reflex or solidarity.

             “Yes,” she agrees simply. “He did.”

             They’re quiet for a long time after that, the click of her pumps and the quiet whir of his prosthetic arm their only conversation. They’ve been walking for nearly an hour, evening long overtaken by night, when Bucky finally stops them.

             “Aren’t those killing your feet?” he asks, looking pointedly at the small, round-tipped pumps teetering precariously on the uneven sidewalk.

             Peggy laughs, sounding startled.

             “They’re not terribly comfortable, no,” she allows, “but I’m not going about in my stockings.”

             Bucky hesitates, glances between his dress boots and her dainty feet. They’ll be huge - but, well, it isn’t the first time he’s walked a date home and ended up swapping shoes for the sake of her feet. They flop and scuff against the sidewalk, but, somehow, she still walks like a queen, hand light on his arm. When they get back, the movie’s just let out and the cameras are back, clacking away as soon as their sights fall on the great war hero and his girl. The officers do their best to make a wall, but every barricade has holes, and Bucky knows by the flashes that they’ll have plenty of shots for tomorrow’s front page. _Scandal!_ they’ll shout. _Captain America Sneaks Out of His Own Debut!_

             Tugging his laces tight, Bucky shoves irritably at these thoughts and finds a cab. It doesn’t take long to get back to the barracks, but he’s still twitchy by the time he gets there, fingers itching to rip the door off and bolt out of the confines of the car. _3-2-5-5-0-7-3-8_ he breathes in. _3-2-5-5-0-7-3-8_ he breathes out.

 

\- - -

 

             It _is_ the front page the next day, but the headline isn’t one he imagined.

             “Captain America Goes Down on One Knee,” Howard reads drily, flicking his paper so that the top folds over and lets him look over the other two. “Classy.”

             Bucky shrugs half-heartedly, studying the jet surface of his coffee, and Peggy takes a sip of her own, unruffled. They’ve spent most of the last week together holed up in Stark Industries, and breakfast has become more or less a daily affair.

             “At least they got a good shot,” Howard muses, turning the paper towards Peggy and Bucky.

             Even if Bucky’s reluctant to admit it, the shot is decent: he’s on his right knee, other up as he helps Peggy slip her pump back on her left foot. His face is hidden, head dipped so that only the broad top of his cap replaces it, but Peggy’s smiling, the dark curve of her lips subtle on her greyscale face and one hand resting daintily on his shoulder.

             “Charming,” she says, now.

             Her gaze lingers over the photo, and Bucky can’t help wondering if she’s replacing his crouched form with a taller, blonder one. Despite the small twinge of pain in his chest, he can’t blame her, can only try to decide whether it’s harder to lose someone when you know you had a chance of having them than when you never had any hope at all.

             “So, what’s on the agenda today?” he asks instead of lingering on the thought, ignoring the way his chest tightens like a corset of bones whenever he thinks about Steve.

             Howard sighs expansively, folds his newspaper and leans back in his chair. His eyes are narrowed, directed at some plane between where they sit and where the dead rest. Peggy’s gaze is steady as it checks his face before Barnes’ and then returns to her coffee.

             “I believe the SSR’s expecting us to check in,” she announces. “That is, if you’re not leaving us for the circuit.”

             Bucky doesn’t laugh, keeps that brittle sound in check.

             “And give up this life of luxury?” he replies instead.

             It’s a joke, and they react accordingly, but something cold and damp curls around the inside of Bucky’s chest at the thought of leaving the SSR, of leaving the war. There’s an apartment waiting in Brooklyn, and he can’t chase away the thought that maybe, maybe if he doesn’t go back, he won’t have to know it’s empty.

 

                                                                

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is just going to be a series of short snippets set in a soulmate AU in which Bucky is recovered and persuaded to take up the Captain America mantle. 
> 
> For my own sake, Steve's identity was kept a secret during the war and Bucky was never named in the comics; basically, lots of hush-hush gov't stuff so as to allow this narrative.


End file.
